


Tuesday Night

by iluvzuzu



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluvzuzu/pseuds/iluvzuzu
Summary: Richie surprise shows up at Eddie's, drunk as all hell, for no discernible reason at all.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 150





	Tuesday Night

When Richie showed up at Eddie’s apartment black-out drunk and covered in vomit, Eddie’s first instinct wasn’t even to question why he was there. Not just there at the apartment, there in New York, because the last he’d heard Richie was doing great back in LA. He’d get to those questions later, when he had time to think. But his true first instinct was to call Richie a fucking moron and shove him directly into the shower.

A knock on his door at 10 pm on a Tuesday was not common, but half of his neighbors were fussy and weird, and the other half were obnoxious and loud, so he assumed that literally any of them might have come to complain about something or other.

Instead, it was Richie, who yelled, _“Spaghetti!”_ and immediately collapsed over the threshold. 

" _Fucking moron,”_ Eddie said, dragging the other man practically on his knees to the hall bathroom, _“fine fucking how-do-you-do,”_ he continued, turning the water on and ignoring Richie’s bleary groan as the cool water hit him directly in the face. Eddie snatched off his glasses and folded them gently on the edge of the sink. “Hey, moron,” Eddie said, snapping his fingers at Richie. “Give me your shirt.”

Richie started fussing with his wet shirt, struggling like a bird caught in a fishing net, all the while slurring, “Yes, _pap_ _í_ _,_ tell me what to do!”

Eddie rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might have strained something. “I’d tell you to get your _mind_ out of the _gutter_ , but it looks like that’s where you’ve been _living_. Pants, too,” he added, gagging as he took the sour-smelling shirt from Richie in one hand and gestured for the pants with the other. 

“Do I _look_ like someone who can umdo a _button fly?”_ Richie babbled. “Well, _oh,_ would you look at that!” he then exclaimed, grinning cheekily up at Eddie from the floor of the tub, “M’ fly’s already _unzipp-oed.”_ He then proceeded to shove his pants down to his knees, trip himself up, slide across the tub, and eventually pull his pants off completely inside-out, saying, “I mean, unbutton-oed.” He handed the dark jeans to Eddie delicately. “Your kerchief, _mademoiselle.”_

Eddie heaved a large sigh and turned to take the soiled clothes to the laundry. “Hey,” he said on his way out. “Don’t fucking drown.”

“Aye aye, sailor,” Richie said, opening his mouth to the stream of the shower and beginning to gargle. Eddie rolled his eyes again and, as he was crossing the hall to the laundry room, heard Richie exclaim, _“Ishmael! I found your chode!”_

After he started the wash and did some deep breathing exercises to keep himself from sympathy-vomiting over the smell of Richie’s clothes, he went into his bedroom for some fresh ones. He considered that it could be entertaining to force Richie’s ridiculous, lanky body into some clothing that was a little small on Eddie himself, but instead opted for a large t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts he never wore. When he reentered the bathroom, he found Richie using shampoo lather to make his hair stand up. “Eds,” he said enthusiastically. “Do you think I should get a mohawk?” 

It was _then_ that Eddie asked, “What are you doing here, Tozier?”

Richie mimed puking so dramatically that Eddie thought he might actually throw up again, but he didn’t. “Um, can’t a _brotha_ visit his _homie_ when he’s in the _hood_?”

“Don’t—talk like that, even _I’m_ offended,” Eddie said. “What are you even doing in my _hood_ in the first place?” 

Richie shrugged, rubbing shampoo into his sparse chest hair. “Concrete jungle wet dream tomato,” he said plainly, like that sentence should mean something to literally anyone. 

“What—” Eddie started. 

“ _Pahhh_ ,” Richie cut him off, precariously standing and placing himself under the stream of the shower, letting all the soap rinse down. Eddie watched the suds trail from Richie’s hair down his chest, collecting in his soaked boxer briefs and running down his legs, and felt an uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck. He looked away, looked anywhere away. “Look,” Richie continued, and Eddie instinctively looked back at him. He was looking at Eddie seriously, intensely, his brow furrowed and his jaw set. “I was just like, vibing in the city. Wanted to see you.”

Eddie pursed his lips. “How did you know where I live?” he decided to ask, of all the questions circulating in his tired brain.

“Old Lady Hanscom” Richie said absently, picking at a nipple hair. Eddie had to restrain his eyes from rolling out of his head. 

“Old—” he started.

“ _Bevvie_ , Beverly told me,” Richie corrected, twirling himself around unsteadily under the water. 

Eddie tsked. “Oh, _Beverly_.”

“Alright, I’m clean now, _Dad_ ,” Richie said, turning the shower off. “Got any snacks? Hey, you got games on your phone?”

Eddie dropped the clean clothes onto the closed lid of the toilet. “Get dried off, put these on. I’ll see if I can find something.”

When Eddie returned to the living room from the kitchen with a large glass of water and a box of multigrain crackers, Richie was sprawled across his sofa wearing his clothes, limbs every which way. “Here, you maniac.”

“You mad at me, Spaghetti?” Richie murmured, twisting his head around to look at Eddie through the tangle of his own arms.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie said. “Drink your water.”

“Don’t be mad,” Richie said, which was one of the phrases that usually served to make Eddie the maddest. 

Tonight, though, he was just tired. Tired, and something else. But not mad. “I’m not mad. Eat some crackers, Trashmouth.” 

“Theef are made of birbfeed,” Richie said around a mouthful of crackers. 

“They’re good for you,” Eddie said. “Lots of fiber.”

Richie swallowed, then said, “Why are you standing up? Don’t stand up while I’m lying down, it’s weird.”

Eddie sighed and took a seat on the chair across from the sofa where Richie was lying. “Happy?”

“Never,” Richie said, shoving some more crackers into his face and chasing it with gulps of water. “You feem mad at me,” he said around the cracker mash in his mouth. 

“Coaster,” Eddie snapped as Richie made to put the glass back down directly onto the table. “I gave you a shower and clothes and food and water and you think that means I’m _mad_ at you?” he exploded. “ _Jesus_ , I mean, I know we’re all screwed up, but what the _fuck_ kind of thinking is _that?_ I fucking—Richie, I took your fucking _puke-shirt_ in my bare hands! _Mad at you,_ ” he repeated, shaking his head. “It’s like you fucking _want_ me to be—” At the look on Richie’s face, he said, “ _Oh my God,_ ” and put his face in his hands. “Richie—”

“It’s not like I had some _plan_ to like, show up here and fucking _make you mad,_ ” Richie insisted. “I just _assumed_ that was what was going to _happen_ . And now you’re taking _care_ of me like I’m—”

“Like you’re my _friend_ who went through _hell_ with me and saved my _life_ ?” Eddie interrupted. “How _rude_ of me. Next time I’ll call you a fucking _cab_.”

When he looked back over at Richie, he was biting his lip and looking in Eddie’s direction. “Thanks,” he said softly. 

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie replied tersely. “Now, _I_ have a job that I have to go to _work_ at tomorrow morning, so I’m going to bed. You can stay here or come with me, but I don’t have any extra blankets or anything so if you’re taking the couch it’s just gonna be you and the couch.” He said this all very quickly, very straightforwardly, like it was no big deal at all. But Richie’s eyes still lit up as he grinned.

“Come _with_ you?” he repeated with a little snicker. “Like, to your _bed?”_

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Do it or don’t,” he said, turning to go. “I’m waking up at 6:45.”

“Oh, no, I’m coming” Richie said, clambering up to follow Eddie down the hall. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, methinks. Have you ever even shared a bed with anyone? Besides your wife and your mommy, I mean.”

“I’m becoming less and less giving,” Eddie grumbled. “Keep talking and you’ll be sleeping in the bathtub.” 

“Sick _Kyle XY_ reference, dude,” Richie said. 

Without turning the lights on, Eddie slid into one side of his neatly-made bed. “You _know_ I don’t know what that is,” he said. “Now, go to sleep, Tozier.”

Richie made a little noise as he struggled to lift what appeared to be a quilt so he could climb under Eddie’s covers. “What the fuck is wrong with your _blanket?_ ” he spluttered. 

Eddie looked around, alarmed. “What are you - it’s _weighted_ ,” he said with a scowl. “It’s—”

Richie groaned and shifted the blanket again, trying to wiggle under it like a kid playing hide and seek. “Why’s your blanket so fucking _heavy_?” he interrupted.

Eddie flung the blanket aside easily and allowed Richie to curl into the mattress. “I’m in the middle of _telling_ you why, moron! It’s supposed to help _anxiety_ ,” he said, lowering it back down over Richie a little more carefully than he would probably admit. 

Richie scoffed and continued wriggling. “By _pinning_ you underneath it and _crushing_ you to death? Yeah, sounds fucking _great_ for anxiety—” 

Eddie shoved his shoulder when Richie accidentally kicked him with his flailing feet. “It’s only 25 pounds,” he said incredulously. “Do you even work out?”

Richie cackled. “Do I even _lift_ bro?” he shouted. “Is that what you’re asking me, _do I even lift bro?”_

Eddie covered his face with his hand and muttered, “ _Jesus fucking Christ…_ ”

Richie calmed himself, still chortling, and shifted again. “Fucking heavy-ass blanket,” he sighed. He was lying on his side, facing Eddie, who continued to lie on his back and face the ceiling. Richie’s intoxicated body was radiating heat, his breathing thick and slowing. “Hey,” he murmured in a much softer voice than he’d used in the boisterous performance before. “Come here,” he coaxed gently.

Eddie’s heart sputtered. “What—” he started, but Richie cut him off. 

Richie shrugged, suddenly seeming strangely bashful. “Just come here,” he repeated, nudging Eddie with the back of his wrist under the covers. 

Eddie tutted frustratedly and rolled over to face him. “I’m _literally right next to you_ , you _freak—_ ” he began, but stopped short when he realized how close their faces were. “What—” he began again, but didn’t finish the question. Perhaps he wasn’t even sure what question he had been asking. 

Gently, Richie let his hand come to rest on Eddie’s hip. He wasn’t looking at Eddie, wasn’t even wearing his glasses and wouldn’t have been able to see him clearly even if he had been. He then asked, rather clinically, “Can I hold you?”

Eddie choked. “Can you fucking _what?”_ he screeched. “ _Hold_ me? You’re seriously asking me right now if you can _hold me?”_

Richie pulled back his hand and rolled onto his back, throwing his arms in the air defensively. “Okay, _Jesus,_ if you don’t want to be _fucking held_ —!”

Eddie, deeply astounded, interrupted, “ _Why_ would I want to be _held,_ you drunk fuck?” 

Richie scoffed. “ _Everyone_ wants to be held!” he blabbered. “Or _almost_ everyone—a lot of people! It’s _normal_ to want to be held,” he concluded firmly. “I’m just _saying_.” 

Eddie thought for a moment, looking at the other man carefully. Finally, quietly, he asked, “You want to be held, Rich?”

Richie turned his head a little, still not looking at him. “Isn’t that the point of your heavy-ass blanket, to feel a little bit held?” He sighed forcefully, then admitted, “ _Yeah_ , I wanna be held. Who doesn’t wanna be _held?”_

Eddie swallowed something acidic and tough in his throat. He said, “Alright, you can fucking hold me.”

Richie cracked a grin. “Come here,” he said, opening his arms wide and drawing Eddie towards his sweaty but soapy-smelling body.

“I’m here,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes and finding a place for his head to rest where Richie’s chest met his shoulder.

“Lemme hold you,” Richie murmured, wrapping his arm around Eddie and stroking the place his hand landed with his thumb; this place happened to be the skin of Eddie’s right elbow, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. It made his heart flutter. 

“You’re holding me,” he replied softly. He could feel Richie’s cheek on the top of his head, hear Richie’s heartbeat under his ear. His left arm was tucked kind of uncomfortably under himself, but he didn’t want to move. 

It only became apparent that Eddie hadn’t been breathing when Richie said, “Eds, I…” and Eddie was forced to suck in a giant gasp of air as he launched into a flurry of motion. 

“Hang on,” Eddie insisted, shifting in the bed so that he could get an arm around Richie’s shoulders, accidentally kneeing him in the side.

“Eddie— _oof_ —” Richie huffed out a laugh at his own pain, “Jesus, what are you _doing?”_

Eddie let out a noise that sounded like something clearly intended to be a scoff but which came out more like the squawk of a disgruntled crow. “I’m just trying—let me—”

Richie was laughing openly now, which only seemed to irritate Eddie more. “Tell me what you’re trying to _do_ and I can _help,_ you fucking _loon—”_

Eddie let out a frustrated growl and cried out, “I can fucking hold you _too_ , while you hold me, just let me figure out the _physics!_ ” 

“ _Okay_ ,” Richie snorted gleefully as Eddie continued to shuffle their bodies around in a tangle of limbs and sheets.

Eddie snapped, “You have like _twelve fucking arms,_ you know that? Hold this,” he demanded, handing the edge of the weighted blanket to Richie, who dropped it immediately onto Eddie’s head, which was, for some reason, somewhere near Richie’s knee. Eddie cried out and when he popped his head out he looked legitimately betrayed.

Richie’s grin was apparent in his voice. “Yeah, I do, and apparently they’re all _noodles_ compared to your _steel blanket.”_

Eddie puttered around shifting Richie’s limbs, muttering, _“Fucking climb into my bed and disrespect my weighted blanket,”_ until finally, _finally,_ he seemed to find his place. His arm was draped down Richie’s back, his other hand resting on the arm Richie had slung around his waist. 

Richie’s head was on his chest now, and his fingers played idly with the hem of Eddie’s shirt. “You got it?” he teased Eddie, “you good?”

Eddie snorted. “I’m good,” he grumbled. He shivered slightly at the barest touch of Richie’s fingers along the skin of his waist, until Richie intentionally started tickling him and, for the first time in his life, instead of making a retort or shoving Richie off, he genuinely laughed as he squirmed in the other man’s arms. 

Richie laughed too, grinning widely up at Eddie as he finally stopped the tickling and instead cupped Eddie’s hip with his hand. Eddie was about to say something more, something like _we should probably get some sleep,_ when Richie pressed his face into Eddie’s torso and hoarsely whispered, _“Fuck.”_

Eddie said tentatively, “Rich?”

Richie let out a sob into Eddie’s shirt. _“Nothing!”_ he cried out defensively, the sound slightly muffled.

Eddie sighed, skimming his knuckles along Richie’s quivering spine. “I didn’t—” he started, but stopped when he realized he didn’t know what to say anyway. They didn’t _do_ this, they had _never_ done this. Other than picking a fight, he had no course of action to follow. Brand new territory. So he waited. Richie had clearly been actually crying—Eddie could feel the wet spots on his shirt—but his breathing eventually slowed, his shaking calmed, and he opened his mouth to speak.

“I’m just like,” he started. He groaned, pressing his forehead into Eddie’s ribs like an overly affectionate cat. Eddie let his hand rise from Richie’s back to sweep the hair back from his face gently, and Richie choked out, “I’m just like _so fucking glad you’re okay_ , dude. I’m just like _so fucking glad_ you’re alive.” 

After fighting off his initial shock, Eddie bit back a smile. “Yeah?” he asked softly, straining his neck a little to look down at Richie’s face. Well, his head, since his face was still pressed into Eddie’s side. But the thought still counted.

Richie mumbled, “Yeah, if you died it would have made things really hard on my relationship with your mom.”

Eddie laughed. _“Fucker.”_ He brought his hand down to Richie’s back again, lightly resting it there. Richie started squirming, nuzzling up Eddie’s body from his belly to his armpit. Eddie rolled his eyes, but he was laughing. “Rich, I swear to God—”

Richie stilled, his leg draped over one of Eddie’s and his arm tight around his waist, his cheek smushed against Eddie’s ribs and his other arm folded neatly between them. “Hey, come here,” he mumbled.

“I _could not physically be any closer to you right now,_ Richie,” Eddie said, squeezing his elbow gently.

“Come _here_ ,” Richie repeated, and Eddie was reminded that he was drunk, he was tired. He had also technically watched Eddie die, once, which should have been more traumatic for Eddie than for Richie. Eddie didn’t quite know why it seemed to be the other way around. 

So he just said, _“I’m here,”_ somewhere between a murmur and a whisper, his own voice gravelly and sad. 

_“You’re here,”_ Richie murmured back, and when his lips moved against Eddie’s chest it almost felt like a kiss. 

_“I’m here,”_ he said again, feeling Richie’s breathing turning sleep-even, feeling his stubble scratching through Eddie’s shirt with every small movement of his jaw, feeling like something was starting. Something had ended, to be sure, but something else was starting. 

“Sorry if I wake up with a boner,” Richie whispered then, rubbing his thumb across Eddie’s hipbone. “This weighted blanket is actually kind of doing it for me.”


End file.
